


Natasha's Normal

by TellMeNoAgain



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Deaf Clint Barton, Domestic Fluff, Happy Natasha, Multi, Shameless Smut, Threesome - F/F/M, Threesome - F/M/M, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-18 12:33:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21660871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TellMeNoAgain/pseuds/TellMeNoAgain
Summary: I've read a lot of Clintasha where Laura is written out of the story and it made me wonder, what if we left her in.  TOTALLY AN AU.Uh, somehow Phil snuck in because how can you have a happy Clintasha without a Phil somewhere?Unbeta'd because I have no idea how you even meet a beta.  HOW DOES THAT ASK HAPPEN.  "Here, I wrote something, can you check it for badness levels?"-----Natasha wakes up, but she doesn’t open her eyes.  Instead, she breathes the sweet country air flowing in through the open window and listens for the sound of the breathing around her.  Laura’s breath is light and sweet, deep and even and steady in front of her, and Clint’s is the same haphazard mess it has always been, one arm wrapped around them both, hand on Laura’s hip.  Natasha is the middle spoon, and not many people, she would guess, can sleep three to a bed, but it’s one of the many things they do well.  She loves these mornings, before the kids are up, the last job so completely done she doesn’t even have to think about it, the next job so far off it could be weeks or months before she has to start planning it.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Laura Barton/Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton/Phil Coulson/Natasha Romanov, Phil Coulson/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32





	1. Waking up

**Author's Note:**

> I don't think this one has triggers, but let me know and I can add more tags and warnings.
> 
> NOT ENDGAME COMPLIANT. (Let's be real here, this AU is barely MCU compliant.)

Natasha wakes up, but she doesn’t open her eyes. Instead, she breathes the sweet country air flowing in through the open window and listens for the sound of the breathing around her. Laura’s breath is light and sweet, deep and even and steady in front of her, and Clint’s is the same haphazard mess it has always been, one arm wrapped around them both, hand on Laura’s hip. Natasha is the middle spoon, and not many people, she would guess, can sleep three to a bed, but it’s one of the many things they do well. She loves these mornings, before the kids are up, the last job so completely done she doesn’t even have to think about it, the next job so far off it could be weeks or months before she has to start planning it. She breathes in the smell of Tide and Laura’s stupid lavendar potpouri, the smell of Laura’s slight glisten and Clint’s bad morning breath, and she lays there and enjoys the normal until Laura’s breathing changes and she mumbles, “Not it,” and shifts her weight a little, grabbing Clint’s hand to pull them both tighter. “Gone for three weeks, not. It,” she repeats. Natasha can’t see her face but she knows the frown and she feels her lips pull into a smile.

“Not it,” agrees Natasha, inching her head forward to kiss Laura’s shoulder through the t-shirt, “I got it.”

“Mmm-nnn,” groans Clint in protest, pulling back on Laura and squishing Natasha between them. “Nuh. N’yet. ‘S’too’early.”

“Not yet,” she reassures him, too, reaching back to pat his hip. He doesn’t have his hearing aids in, but he understands the pat and subsides back to drowsing, releasing Laura and thereby releasing Natasha some, too.

Natasha loves mornings like these. She feels a brief pang for Phil, who would love these mornings, too, if he ever got one, but it’s important to Clint to keep these two worlds separate, and Natasha respects the need to keep boundaries. Phil gets it, anyway.

Natasha watches the sun come up on the walls of the bedroom inch by brightening inch, and lets herself doze, too, sinking in to all the normal Laura has built for them, for when they come home.

~~~

It hadn’t started that way, of course. It started with Clint in an alley in Tokyo, when he was a young merc and she was a Widow and the Red Room’s haze hovered over her life. The kind of people who need sharpshooter bodyguards are also the kind of people of interest to the Russian government, mostly, at least on the Asian continent where everyone is neighbors in the worst way, and this one, well, this one more than most. But this time, there’s a kid, and while she knows she shouldn’t care, she does. No one will question her, there’s no one watching her, Widows are designed to fly solo, so she makes a different call on that day. The guy gets to live a little longer, and she feels nothing as she watches him breathes breaths she has given him, lean down, give the kid a sweet. She watches his sniper bodyguard watch her, his eyes seeing more than most, and she watches him decide his paycheck isn’t worth mentioning her. He nods at her, instead, in what he probably thinks is professional to professional, and she smiles, because it’s cute.

~~~

Later on, years later, she’s in her last bolthole from the cold. She hasn’t had anyone to watch her back since Ilyanna was a heartbeat too slow, two weeks ago, and she’s stretched so thin, jolting awake on adrenaline and wondering if she should just take the Brazilian’s offer, even though it is a terrible insult to her training. She hears a noise and she realizes this is probably it. Her physical capabilities have been drained, the constant vigilance takes its toll, too, on her mental faculties. She’s operating, she would guess, at about half her peak ability, barely a Widow at all. Just a scared, dumb woman. A scared dumb woman who just wants to be left alone.

She steadies a breath and checks her inventory, her exits, and then the gun outside cocks, and time starts to flow like molasses.

She can’t remember, now, which agency was first through the door, but she thinks it was the KGB. She kills two, but the third gets her in a hold and drags her outside. He’s killed, by Nigerians, she thinks, who she turned down the week before and that had been stupid, in retrospect, but she didn’t like the leering eyes of the second in command. Being free doesn’t mean much, mostly “die young,” but it does mean she doesn’t have to sign on if she doesn’t want to. Mostly, Natasha doesn’t want to.

The Nigerians are interrupted, after she is cuffed but before they can begin beating her, by the Hondurans, who definitely have their eye on selling her scalp to the Mexicans because that bounty is getting ridiculous, and she takes advantage of the confusion to free herself and acquire a weapon or two.

She shoots three Nigerians and a couple of Hondurans, only 2 instantly fatal, and then there’s a strange moment of silence before all hell breaks loose. In that moment of silence, she looks up at the night sky and sees a familiar face directly above her, on the building, and he signs, “Stay put, good spot,” and then signals, “Go, go,” and she’s not wearing her ear plugs so she covers her ears as all four snipers start to fire into the crowd.

In the end, the only people standing are her and SHIELD. Clint drops from the rooftop in a single, graceful leap and crouch. He signs, “Looking for a job?” and he’s smiling the same smile he had for her in Tokyo.

Phil is furious when they get to the safe house, absolutely enraged, and she wouldn’t know it at all but Clint assures her it’s true. The man must be locked down as tight as Natasha, not to betray it even in a twitch of his eye, but he welcomes her to SHIELD with a grimace of a smile and says smoothly, “Warm up,” with a jerk of his head at the kitchen.

It takes two days for their pick up. Natasha sleeps through most of it, curled up with Clint because he’s willing and warm. Clint coaxes her off of the bed to eat, which means she’s forced to get up and use the bathroom, too, but her bones are like heavy metal and that bed is like a magnet and it keeps pulling her down. Clint never seems to mind, and if Phil is irritated at her monopolizing of his asset, he has that buttoned up, too, as he brings them both enough breakfast in bed for four people each morning.

On-boarding at SHIELD takes a ridiculously short period of time. They already have a file on her. She’s already been assigned to Phil. She gets to pick from one of the three carefully tailored identities they have available for her and she choses Natasha Romanoff because she likes that the woman wears sweatpants and belongs to a gym and used to take ballet. It’s a comfortable persona, the kind the Red Room never allowed her, and she already feels herself sliding into it like a glove. Natasha, she decides, is going to have a good heart and a wicked sense of humor. Natasha is going to try to clear the red from her ledger.

Phil shows her to her official quarters and then says, diffidently, “But of course, Clint is going to expect you to go with him to his apartment. You’re cleared.”

She turns to him and lets one eyebrow raise up, cocking her head. 

“When we bring someone in from the cold,” he tells her, and the shrug is so small she can barely count it as more than a twitch, “we don’t freeze them out again. It’s not conditional on your employment, but I think you’ll like Laura. I think a little normal will be good for you.”

She purses her lips, thoughtful, and when Clint does, in fact, come to collect her from Phil’s office, she nods and follows him down to the garage. 

He drives like a madman.

~~~

He pulls up to a small brick four-plex in a neighborhood that could be anywhere in America. He parks in the parking spot for #4, and checks the mailbox at the bottom of the stairs. They climb the stairs in silence, and when he gets to the top, he turns left and leads her down the hallway to the door. She doesn’t know why she’s so surprised when he doesn’t knock, but she is. She’s startled by it, suddenly hyperaware that this is his home, he’s leading her to his house. She hangs back a sec and he pauses in the doorway, and swings his sharp gaze over to look at her for a full second before stepping forward into the apartment and shouting, “Hi, honey, I’m home!’

A woman shrieks with excitement and Natasha is at the doorway in time to see Laura jump up on her husband and pepper his lips with kisses. Clint’s arm muscles are bulging but he is laughing and looks comfortable here. 

The apartment is small, but cheerful, full of bright colors and the smell of something warm cooking on the stove. Natasha steps in and pulls the door shut behind her, gently.

Clint is still kissing Laura when he says, “Look, I found her out in the cold, please can we keep her, Phil says I can,” and Natasha knows her eyes are wide and startled, like a deer’s, but she cannot get them under control fast enough, and so that’s Laura’s first look at her.

Laura smiles, big and wide and warm, and grabs a blanket off of the couch beside them to pitch at her and says, “Take off your coat, take off your shoes, and I hope you like spaghetti,” before returning to kissing her husband. “Get warm,” she commands, holding his lip between her teeth. “I need him for maybe thirty minutes, can you give me that?” She tilts her head to glance at Natasha and Natasha feels a laugh, an honest laugh grow in her chest and it might be the first one in her adult life that she lets go so easily. 

“Yeah,” she says, looking at the two of them, “Go, I got this,” and she waves to the bookshelf full of DVDs.

“Good,” says Laura decisively. “You, soldier!” And Clint snaps to attention, grabbing another kiss. “Hey, bedroom!” she says, breaking out of it, and Clint replies, “Hup!” and turns and walks her down the hallway. They crash into a lot of things but Natasha thinks that’s mostly because Laura is trying to steer where she can’t see and Clint is trying desperately to do whatever he can to please.

Natasha rolls her eyes and settles on Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. It had made a big splash just the year before but Natasha hadn’t had time, she was already on the run. She spreads the blanket over her stocking feet and settles in for thirty minutes of screentime.

They are loud and unsurprisingly effusive with their praises of each other, and Clint holds out for longer than thirty minutes, which does surprise her.

~~~

“So, Natasha,” says Laura brightly, the steam from the spaghetti rising up in front of her face. “Fury and Phil said you could come over? I thought I was some big secret at SHIELD,” she says to Clint, obviously looking for a reaction.

“The biggest,” he assures her, “I mean, right after the aliens.”

She laughs, bright and happy, and turns to Natasha.

Natasha smiles, because Laura is that kind of person, she deserves smiles in return, and says, “You’re not in any file. You don’t exist.”

“Very reassuring,” Laura tells her. “So what makes you so special?”

Natasha shakes her head, her hair falling to hide her expression. She had actually just been thinking the exact same thing. She slides her gaze over to Clint, who has stuffed an entire meatball into his mouth, and they are definitely American portions, Natasha has cut hers into eighths just to process it better visually. He chews, staring back at them defiantly, and swallows, and then takes a sip of milk and says, “She’s cold, Laura. She needs warming.”

“Ahh, another Clint Barton special,” says Laura. “By which I mean, we’ve graduated to people, excellent, I was wondering if you’d ever get there. The couch is still completely the worst call ever.”

“I love that couch,” protests Clint.

“And I’m sure Natasha is at least as loveable as the ugly ass wreck of a couch. But we are going to need more space, Clint. Talk to Fury.”

“Yes, ma’am,” says Clint, and that is the only conversation they ever have about why Natasha is now a member of their family.

~~~

Once, in an unguarded moment, with Cole staring up at his mobile and the sun sinking in the sky, and the sounds of rural Missouri everywhere, Natasha asks Laura, “Why do you do it?”

Laura doesn’t pretend not to know exactly what Natasha is referencing, and so she stops folding the endless cloth diapers- Natasha and Clint had gone round and round about them until Laura had burst into tears and then Clint had caved- and looks at Natasha and says, “How many happily married people work for SHIELD?”

Natasha thinks about it. There’s a couple, mostly in the analysts, and there’s a pair of agents who always go out as a pair, and a handler who, like Phil, is a little more hands on, but that’s it, that’s all she can think of, and she’s not even sure their marriages are happy, per se. 

Laura watches her think about it and says, “Yeah. I can’t save the world, or even some kids in a mine, or anything. But I can do this. I can do this so well that Clint - Clint and you- always have somewhere to come home to, a piece of normal. Not many people can do this, you know. And I bet nobody does it as well as I do.”

“Do-” and here Natasha hesitates, unwilling to hurt by misunderstanding, “but do you do it for him?”

Laura vents a laugh and says, quietly, “I do it for me. I love being the best there is at what I do. I love the look on his face when he comes home and home is here. I love watching him sink into home and normal and I love erasing every single thing that’s ever been done wrong to him. I love that I keep everything at an even keel whether you guy’s’re back or gone. I love that I’m probably the only woman in the world lucky enough to get to do this.”

“He is going to drive you nuts when he retires,” Natasha says.

“He already drives me nuts. We’ve got outbuildings. He can turn them into a moonshine and a saloon and keep his hand in with all that adrenaline junkie stuff selling illegal liquor to the Missouri mafia,” she responds matter-of-factly. “Natasha, what’s the matter?”

Natasha shifts uncomfortably, “Babies are a lot of work,” she finally settles on.

“Yes,” agrees Laura. “Work I am happy to do. They’ll keep me busy.”

“They?” asks Natasha.

“Oh, I am not stopping at one,” Laura states serenely. “One of the perks of those hazard bonuses is that I can have as many as I want, and I’ll stop when I damn well please, now that I’ve started. Now what’s the matter? Natasha, talk to me, here.”

“I just-” and to her horror, her voice clogs, and it never does that- her body is her tool and her tool never betrays her.

Laura watches her with kind eyes, the only kind of eyes Laura has, and says, “Natasha, if you want babies, you know I’ll watch them for you, right?”

Natasha’s head snaps up and she snaps out, “God, no, не́хуй, Laura, no!”

Laura spreads her hands, “I am not a super spy, Natasha, talk to me.”

“I just want to make sure-” and Natasha’s throat closes again, dammit, what are the odds, “Make sure you are happy.”

“What, like forever?” teases Laura, but when Natasha doesn’t say anything, she rises up and puts her hands on Natasha’s face and says, so slowly, “I can’t promise that. Every time you and Clint go out, I know he is in good hands, but even you can’t promise me that, and I’ve never asked it of you. I wouldn’t, what a horrible thing to ask. And you can’t ask that of me, you can’t, Natasha. I can promise you this will always be home. I can promise you I love this, and that I’ll say something if after maybe another decade or so I start to lose my edge at the top of my game. But I can’t promise you I’ll be happy forever, Natasha.”

Natasha nods, and lets the tears spill over, because this is Laura, Laura who changes the sheets on the bed in Natasha’s room, so that they are fresh and clean every time she comes home, regardless of whether that’s where she sleeps that first night back. Laura who never assumes she would want to sleep anywhere else, but who is always so welcoming when she does choose their bed. Laura who just makes everything normal, everything, even Clint, with his fucked up childhood, even Natasha, with her no-childhood-at-all.

“I love you, too,” says Laura, sweeping her up into her arms and pressing a kiss to her forehead. “This is always going to be your home, Natasha.”

Natasha nods, and Clint appears, like he always does, just at the right-wrong moment, and takes in the scene, and then comes forward and wraps them both in his arms and they stand like that for awhile until he says, plaintively, “So, what are we doing?”

And Laura quips back, “I love you, man, moment.”

“Who gave you tequila,” he chides Natasha.

“Nobody, dummy,” she says, and wipes her eyes on his shoulder.

“Eventually he’s going to sleep through the night,” Laura remarks. “And we’re all going to feel so much better. You could stop getting up with us every two hours. Or take turns.”

“Or we could try a bottle,” mutters Clint, already flinching before Natasha and Laura round on him, “It is a natural thing, I will be fine, I get enough sleep to get by-” “She has made her decision, Clint, support, don’t undermine!”

And then together, in unison, they say, “Not that there’s anything wrong with formula. Fed is best.”

Clint sighs and says, “I know,” resting his chin on the top of Laura’s head. “Not that there’s anything wrong with any of this.”

Natasha sighs. It is pretty perfectly normal.

After another moment, Laura kisses her forehead and slips out of their arms and says, “Diapers. So many diapers,” and Natasha glares at Clint and he gives her who-me eyes but doesn’t say anything more. So they’re all okay. That night, when she hears Laura stir with the baby, she doesn’t get out of bed the first time, and the second time, she firmly pushes Clint to her bed to go back to sleep. They’ll figure this out, too.


	2. Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SMUT! YAY! SMUT WITH FEELINGS!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I don't think there needs to be warnings beyond the EXPLICIT on the whole thing, but feel free to suggest some in the comments.

They’ve been figuring it out now, for so many years, Cole learned to walk, and then talk. The light hits the crystal pendant hung from the curtain and Natasha is careful to remain absolutely still as the room explodes into rainbows around them. Her lips curve into a smile and she remembers how Laura has solved so many of the detentes between them by bludgeoning through their issues by the most straightforward and direct route.

~~~

Laura is just slightly showing when she climbs on top of Natasha and says, “Nat, Clint’s rules are always dumb, I am done letting him lead, if you don’t kiss me right now, I am going to cry,” and with that threat looming over her head, Natasha decides this persona has always been bisexual, and kisses her fervently. It doesn’t end with the kiss to end all kisses, though, Laura is demanding and anxious in a way that Natasha has never seen before, not that she’s seen much of this, but she’s heard a lot of it over the years, and this is new. She pulls Natasha into the bedroom and they are in the middle of Round Two, Natasha and Round Three, Laura, when Clint wanders in and Laura pulls her fingers out of Natasha and says, “Oops,” and they both burst into endorphin-high laughter. 

Clint raises an eyebrow and starts taking off his shoes, unbuckling his belt, a smile curling across his face, “Get a little eager, did ya, babe?” he teases.

“Second trimester,” gasps Natasha, as Laura’s eager fingers shove back into her. “It’s a- it’s a bitch when the hormones hit.”

“She purrs,” tattles Laura. “If you- here, you have to hear this-” 

Clint chuckles and kisses Natasha, and as first kisses go, it’s clean and sweet and also his girlfriend is practically fisting her and so it’s filthy, too. He says, “I hope to God you are using birth control because I really could not handle two of you,” and Natasha kisses him again just to shut him up.

She does purr for him, multiple times, and they make Laura shake and shout, before Laura declares she is starving and someone should make her food because she has done enough for the both of them that day. They all nap together, curled up on the bed where they have slept together, on and off, although the new naked sleeping thing is very new and Natasha doesn’t love the way her skin gets stuck both back and front. Lingerie, she realizes, carefully not shifting at all because it stings, was built exactly for this- clothes that you keep on during sex so you don’t stick together afterwards. This woman, this Natasha, does not own one single scrap of it, but maybe she should invest.

~~~

Years later, two kids and countless missions later, Phil’s eyes are bleak, his hands have stilled on Natasha’s torso, wrapped just above her hips, holding her from twitching against him, and she smiles indulgently, because he thinks he’s calling Clint’s bluff.

She twists lithely in his lap, because she is no-way missing this moment, as Clint whips out his phone and presses his speed-dial, his eyes never leaving Phil’s face. Laura answers right away, because it’s after 8 where she is, probably- probably closer to 10, Natasha reflects and is pleased when Clint puts it on speakerphone and she can hear the just-before-bed slur in Laura’s voice as they exchange back and forth greetings.

“I love you, too, honey,” she’s saying, as the phone makes the switch, “All done so fast? I thought you said, oh, but Nat’s back, isn’t she, good. Are you there, Nat?”

“Hello, Laura,” Natasha says, warmly, and she feels Phil’s dick twitch helpless against her. She has noted that that tone in her voice has had that effect on Clint in the past, yes. Right now, he’s staring stonily at Phil. “Be home soon, I guess, probably three days, if pick up comes tomorrow night-”

“Laura,” interrupts Clint, impatient, always so impatient. “I called because Phil wants me to check in with you, can I fuck him?”

“Is this for a mission?” asks Laura, after a pause, her voice sharpening. Natasha can feel Phil tensing underneath her, his hands moving to push her off, and she holds him for a microsecond with her thighs willing him to just listen a sec, when Laura continues, “Because, babe, I really don’t think your first time together should be work-related, I think he deserves better than that, really, hon. I mean, of course, you know best,” -Natasha snorts, it’s physical, she can’t actually stop herself in that moment- “but please consider a little romance with this one, huh?”

Clint smiles sharply at Phil’s intake of breath. “No, hon, I’ll do exactly as you say. Romance the pants off of him, you think roses?”

“Don’t be silly,” Laura responds, “we all agreed lilies. Hi, Phil, come home with them if you can, the kids are dying to show you their report cards. Natasha, you got them?”

Natasha lets all of her smile show in her voice as she says, “Don’t I always?” And Laura laughs. 

“Anyway, babe, finally already, please be gentle with him. If you can,” she says, sounding somewhat doubtful. “He’s waited longer than Nat, you’re absolutely horrible at making the rules, you should have let me make this one.”

Phil is struggling under Clint’s predatory gaze, Natasha can tell, so she gives her hips a little slow twist, just to remind him that this is really, really happening right now.

“Love you, Laura,” she prompts Clint. “Gotta go now.”

“Love you!” returns Laura cheerfully. “Remember everything, I expect a blow-by-blow tell-all when you get here! Goodnight, husband!”

“‘Night, wife,” says Clint, and then he hangs up. The click of the burner phone in the room echoes for a moment. Natasha is soaking in the sexual tension between them- neither one has been willing to look away since Phil spat out, “Stop. I wouldn’t- your wife, Clint.”

“So, sir,” says Clint in a voice just above a whisper, and Phil’s dick and fingers twitch again and Natasha feels her smile broaden. “I guess tonight we’re a two-for-one deal, and you’d be an idiot not to take us up on the offer.”

Natasha feels the moment when Phil caves, and the moment after that, he surges up, grabbing her under the thigh and stalking them both to Clint. Clint’s arms come around her, boxing her in, his shoulder a clever and convenient place to rest her head, as they kiss just over her shoulder.

Natasha know this version of her has saved the world- a lot- and that moments like these are reserved for heroes like her, but she still figures there’s no way she deserves to have this feeling, light and giddy and thrilled, as Phil moans a little and Clint teases, “Your wife, Clint,” into the kiss. “Christ, Phil, I’m gonna buy you so many lilies, you sad martyred sonuvabitch.”

Natasha hums agreement and interest as she slips one hand between them to wrap around the back of Clint’s neck and snakes the other up to start undoing Phil’s tie. “C’mon, Phil,” she purrs, “Don’t let him get away with that, hold out for jewelry,” and Phil switches to kissing her, comfortable and familiar with its demanding and all-encompassing need. Clint gasps, his hands dropping to help support her weight on on Phil’s hips, his familiar hard-on pressed tight against her back, grinding a little.

She knows Phil is their handler, their watcher-from-the-shadows, their calvary-ready-to-ride, but for the last three days, he’s sat here, watching them almost die, and he gets so fucking worked up, it’s always been her policy to fuck him back to reality as soon as it’s safe. They’re alive, they lived, they are the best at what they do, but he never seems to believe it until he’s buried in her for the second time, and there are fresh bite marks on her back. Maybe with Clint helping, it’ll hit sooner.

When she pulls back a little, Phil responds by opening his eyes and she is shaken to see how far gone he already is, pupils blown, lips swollen, cheeks tinted. That fast-paced, ever-analytical mind, stuttering to a halt. She loves it, she’s so lucky.

“Bed,” states Clint, tapping her on the hip, prompting her to jump down gracefully from her wrap around Phil’s torso, “Go, Nat, you’re- you, go, get started,” and she smiles, again, there’s so much joy in this moment, she is so lucky, so she leads the way to the bedroom, shucking jewelry, weapons, and clothing as she walks. 

“Sir,” she hears behind her, and while it’s quiet, it’s not tentative, and it thrills her as she pulls down the blankets on the frankly ridiculous four poster bed. “Sir, Phil, please, please let me-” and there’s the sound of Phil gasping for a breath, and she glances back to see Clint slowly unbuttoning Phil’s shirt. “You watched, I knew you- I knew you were there, even in- even at night, I knew you could be right there, in my ear, if I needed you. If I ever need you,” he repeats, correcting himself. “You need us, now,” and he slides the cufflinks out of Phil’s sleeves, one at a time, carefully putting them on the table, clnk, clink, “will you let me- let us? Please, Phil, sir?” 

Clint Barton may not be a Red Room trained super spy, but he does just fine in getting his man.

She watches as Phil nods, his absolutely unbroken spook’s-spook control completely shattered. It’s a gift, this moment, as she kneels on the bed and watches them, head tilted to rest on one propped hand. Clint kisses him slowly, gentle at first and following his lead, only deepening it when Phil lets him in. He’s pulling at his own clothes, struggling with the catch to his top, and Natasha sighs a little, because she was so enjoying that show. She vaults the ridiculous footboard, though, and silent as a cat slots herself behind Clint, clever hands unsticking the zipper and smoothly sliding the uniform off. He steps out of his pants, hands working gently with Phil’s belt, Phil’s hands inching through his hair, pulling just a bit, which she doesn’t think is even intentional. It’s just, well, Phil’s waited so long, and Clint’s just so infinitely suited to some hair pulling. Clint has been slowly sidling them towards the bed, not the most subtle but she figures it’s still a bit romantic. When they get close enough, he presses Phil’s back to the carved footboard and Natasha takes advantage of their lack of walking to slide Phil’s pants and socks down and he obliges by kicking out of them.

The room is warm- Phil gives her the tangible proof that she is not alone anymore after every mission, if he can, by building her a sauna in the safehouse, somehow, whether or not he can give them the luxury of a bed and time to screw in it. Natasha checks to make sure there’s nothing except underwear on her men, figuring they’d both like to take care of the final reveal, this first time together, and then hops up on the bed.

When Clint says, “Go, get started,” he doesn’t mean, “go plump the pillows,” so she lays in the center, on her side, and slips a hand between her legs, practically purring as she watches them at the end of the bed. She can figure pretty well what he has planned, because while he’s neither an analyst nor a super spy, he is Clint, and he misses no details, and especially no details about Phil. She brings herself close to the edge, eyes slitted as she watches them make out like teenagers. Phil is no longer tentative, and the kisses, while still sweet, are no longer gentle. 

“Ah-ah,” teases Clint, finally breaking and leaning back to smile at Phil. “Do you hear that?”

Phil is breathing hard, so it’s possible he actually hasn’t heard it, but Natasha watches his mind gather his senses together and feels her breath catch the minute he realizes what he’s hearing and his head snaps to look over-down- at her. He turns entirely around to watch her, well, watch her hand, for a moment, and she lets another hiss leak between her teeth, lets her head tip back and her back arch up a little. “Shameless,” chuckles Clint, directly into Phil’s ear, pressing himself tight to Phil’s back, watching her with pride and possession. Natasha can imagine what his hands are doing, wrapped around Phil like that. “Do you like her like this, sir? All spread out, do you ever ask her, well, you can’t, can you? Watch her, just how you want, and fuck her, just how she needs, can you sir? You can’t do both.”

Natasha groans, because Clint could not be more fucking observant. Phil’s eyes have been glazing since Laura had said “we all agreed lilies,” and the lights are low in this room, but she can just see their pale skin, eyes glowing in the scattered light. Clint’s hand, doing what-she-hopes to Phil, is moving slow and steady, and his smile at her is positively wicked as he murmurs, “Just look at her, sir, she’s so close, you know that flush, around her face, you know what that means, right, sir?”

It’s filthy, using their shared history- Phil and Natasha’s, Clint and Natasha’s, against him in this moment, but it’s also, Natasha can see, working.

“Damn,” comments Clint, his innocent, awed tone at odds with the invested, possessive look in his eyes. “I bet her lips would look great stretched around your cock, sir.”

It’s absolutely ridiculous how well this is working on Phil, who licks his lips. “All right,” he says firmly, and Natasha is impressed that anyone that turned on can form such coherent speech,“I can see the two of you are absolutely determined to get your way.”

“You usually do let us,” Natasha reminds him, her voice thickening to something just above a moan. Clint’s not the only one who knows how to push buttons, and she watches a shudder slide through Phil. “You usually do let us get our way, Phil.”

“Please, sir?” murmurs Clint, and Natasha does moan as Phil’s eyes flutter shut. “You can tell me just how to do it, to do it right, I promise.”

Natasha watches Phil watch her, watch her fingers, catching all of the small signals he knows so well, and thinks, gotcha, as his hand comes up to grip the footboard in front of him. She feels a shudder begin just under her skin and lets it flow across her muscles, quaking a little and letting her head pull forward, hair hiding her face from their gaze.

“Ah-ah-ah,” teases Clint, “Sir, are you just going to let her-?”

“Natasha,” chokes Phil, sharply, “Head back, I want to see your face.”

“P-please,” and Natasha feel a momentary annoyance for that stray twitch, she hadn’t meant to stutter, “sir, please tell him-”

“Clint,” and Clint abruptly stops what he is doing, causing Phil to thrust once before getting himself under control, she knew it, she knew what Clint was doing, but now she has undeniable proof and that is so much better. “Clint, get on the damn bed.” Clint smugly vaults over the footboard, landing stretched out beside her, hand gently sliding up to rest on her hip, cock nestling against the back of her thighs, and they both turn to look at Phil, who huffs a laugh and walks to the right side of the bed, looking down at them both in bemusement, shaking his head a little. His erection, friendly and familiar, is straining the line of his black briefs and Natasha smiles to see a small wet spot already staining the front. This was the best idea.

“So greedy,” comments Phil without reproof, sitting beside them, back to the footboard, watching Clint inch his fingers forward. When he brushes hers aside, she moans and lifts her hand to tangle in his hair. Clint whips his head to the side and captures them in his mouth, cleaning them off with long powerful strokes of his tongue before letting them go to tangle in the hair at the crown of his head.

“Tastes so good,” Clint reports, as his fingers dip into her. Phil leans forward and tweaks her nipples, one after the other, and watches her eyes flutter and her lips curl in response. 

“Yes, I know,” murmurs Phil, and Clint gives an involuntary thrust against her thighs and she thinks, uh-oh, as she catches Phil noting that response. “I know all about her hot and tight dripping wet pussy, Clint, I’ve been fucking it for longer than you.”

Uh-oh, she thinks again, delighted, as Clint’s fingers go savage for a few strokes. Phil twists to lie down in front of them, lifting her chin and kissing her gently, his tongue flitting against her lips, pulling back so that she achingly follows him, familiar with her responses, playing her for his favorite ones. She has no objection, following his lead, hands raising to trail along his side, tucking her thumbs under the band of his briefs to brush against his cockhead. He humps into her once-twice, and then smiles into their kiss, and pulls back. “There’s my girl,” he murmurs, one hand rising between them to tweak her nipple again, and Clint mutters against her shoulder, gnawing and humping forward. She pushes back against him and his fingers plunge into her, impatient and suddenly greedy.

“Clint,” teases Phil, “I can’t believe you’re going to make my lady send you an engraved invitation, are you? You have to know what she’s telling you, you have fucked her before, right?”

Clint growls, low, and gnaws on Natasha’s shoulder, making her vision go a little incandescent. 

“Here,” says Phil magnanimously, “Let me help you out.” Natasha gasps as he slips off his briefs in one smooth move and then he’s lifting her thigh, Clint’s hand flying up to her breast and grabbing there. He slides in, smooth, and it probably would have been a disaster of a move except that she’s pretty sure she’s never been so wet in her life. “When-” and he talks, but it’s peppered with grunts and Natasha is moaning and incoherent, “when she pushes back-” and he shoves her hips back with a very forceful thrust, making Clint cry out quietly and his fingers twitch on her breast “-like that, she wants you to fuck her, right then, and you should always-” another extra-forceful thrust, another quiet cry from behind her, grunt from in front of her, she’s panting now, her breath absolutely uncontrolled- “always do what my lady likes best.”

“Oh,” moans Clint. “Oh, okay, yes, sir. Got it,” and Natasha smiles up at Phil, who is smiling down at her for a moment, and then his gaze goes serious and he taps her cheek with one hand and says, “Always what my lady likes best.”

She smiles up at him in uncomplicated happiness and flips them so that she is on top, and impales herself slowly until Phil’s eyes roll back and she places one hand on his chest and knows she looks like a porn star because she learned this move from a porn star. Clint gasps, “Jesus, ‘Tasha,” and she smiles down at him, too, and says, “Boys, boys” and she twitches her hips, making Phil groan and Clint lick his lips, “the games are all fun, but I need fucked, in the worst way. Just give me my first one free, and then we can play all night if that’s what you want.” And then she sets a brutal rhythm, exactly the pace she knows Clint loves and Phil can’t hold out against, and Clint is laughing and leaning over to kiss Phil’s cheek, his neck, running a hot hand down his chest and murmuring, “Best do what your lady likes,” in a tone that is going to get him in such trouble when Phil has two brain cells together again. 

Natasha can feel the climax just before it hits, and she loves the way Clint surges up to kiss her as it shakes her apart at the same time that Phil thrusts into her harder, gripping her hips with his strong and clever fingers and pressing her down on him. She is gasping and wrung out by the time it leaves her body, goosebumps passing in waves across her skin. Clint pulls her forward, off of Phil and mutters, “Jesus, Nat, condoms,” and she mutters back, “For fuck’s sake we’ve all been fluidbonded for years, Laura is safe, you big germophobe.”

“Besides,” remarks Phil with a remarkable amount of calm in his voice, given how close he must be, himself, “This way when you suck me off, you can taste us both.”

Clint swallows reflectively and she laughs into his mouth and says, “Go, go, I’ll just lay here and watch, round two is all you.”

Phil is not prepared for Clint’s mouth, she knows, and chuckles to herself when she’s right. No one ever looks at Clint and thinks, “There’s the best fucking mouth in America,” but Laura and Natasha have often joked about getting t-shirts made because, damn, it’s true, though.

Phil is wrecked in moments, all his control just, funneled out of him, and Clint is humming with satisfaction. Natasha would be jealous, for all her Red Room training in seduction and sex techniques, she’s never had Phil such a fucking wreck in such a short period of time, but it’s Clint’s mouth, and there’s no point. He’s literally- the things he does with his tongue, and she and Laura and now Phil, too, are just so fucking lucky that he is so dedicated to craft mastery. She watches Phil start to lose control, hips snapping forward against his considerable will, and watches Clint’s eyes flutter shut, and is really glad she knows Phil is up and able for a second round after a short pause, or she’d be disappointed it’s all over already.

“F-fuck,” hisses Phil, and Natasha hums in sympathy, remembering her first time with Clint’s tongue tangled in her folds, staring up at Laura, shocked and dizzied, “F-fuck, Clint, y-you.”

Clint hums, and Natasha watches Phil’s balls jump, sliding a hand between her legs to lazily swirl herself awake. Clint keeps humming, and his nose is pressing to Phil’s stomach with each slide-and-swallow, and she leans over and offers her fingers, wet with slick, to Phil, who licks them and comes abruptly, with a groan and a tortured expression. Clint hums his approval, and Phil shouts, startled, hands scrabbling on the sheets, biting down on Natasha’s finger reflexively.

Clint raises his head, licking his lips, and says huskily, “God, sir, I have wanted to do that- you have no idea.”

Natasha smirks at Phil, whose eyes are blown wide in the wake of his orgasm, and who definitely has returned to the reality in which Natasha and Clint are safe and everything is amazing again. Nice. Mission accomplished, ahead of usual schedule. Go Clint.

“I want you in her,” Phil says, voice under control now, “I want you, I want her underneath you, legs spread, Nat.”

Natasha smiles, so pleased that everything is happening exactly as she thought it would, and obeys the order, straightening to lay flat, head on the pillow, legs splayed.

“Jesus Christ, Nat,” complains Clint, “You’re such a slut, why do you do this to me?”

She smiles and slips a hand down to her mound, flicking her finger against her clit in a way that arrests both men’s attention. “If you’re going to be insulting-” she warns him, “I have a choice of dance partners.”

“Yeah, but he’s soft, he’s out of the action,” taunts Clint, climbing over Phil, “I took him out.”

“I think we know who has the patience here,” she returns, shifting her hips to give him entry. “I can play all night until he’s ready. You’re usually the one who-”

“Need in,” mutters Clint, and Phil leans over to slide Clint’s boxers down, freeing his erection. 

“You want a condom,” teases Phil.

“I want in, sir,” repeats Clint, shifting to help Phil strip the boxers the rest of the way, and then he’s lining himself up- he’s thicker than Phil, but Phil has slightly more length, it’s a toss up for Natasha. He holds there, and Natasha is confused for a split second- she blames her arousal- and then they both look to Phil.

Phil sucks air in, realizing that they’re waiting, waiting for him to call it, and the moment stretches until Clint is trembling. Natasha is slightly amazed, waiting isn’t something they’ve ever done with Laura but she’s showing this to Laura next time and it is getting added to the playlist of things, regular rotation, if she has anything to say about it. Clint is trembling. Clint sucks in a gulp of air and hisses, “I want in, sir,” again.

Phil hums in appreciation and runs a finger up Clint’s spine. Clint’s trembling turns into a shudder and he stares down at Natasha and she smirks up at him and he gives her his “Jesus Christ” eyes, and tucks his tip into her. Phil didn’t say yet, hasn’t called it, so she slides off, hitching herself up and tsk-ing at him cruelly. Clint grunts, acknowledging her point, and again, they turn to look at Phil as one unit.

Phil chuckles, running a hand up Clint’s spine again to make him shudder, and says, “I suppose now is not the time to point out that I make my living being patient.”

Natasha rolls her eyes expressively, and Phil waits at her, and Clint’s harsh breathing stutters and he says, “Jesus Christ, Nat, just-” and she murmurs, “I want him in, please, sir, call it.”

“In,” says Phil, and slaps Clint’s ass. Clint’s hips stutter forward, anxiously seeking, and Natasha lines them up so that he slides in, hissing, and she knows she’s purring as he seats himself all the way deep inside her, not as deep as Phil but tighter, more filling, pressing her open in all the best ways. “Jesus, fuck, Nat,” groans Clint, “your fucking purr, Jesus.” She knows what it does to him, so she threads her fingers through his hair in gentle apology and encouragement. He twists his head to kiss her palm, and then rises up and shudders back into her. This is homecoming, this slow stroke that she knows so well, this is Friday nights and Sunday mornings, hot cocoa chilling on the side table, Laura’s laughter threaded through their lives, entwining them closer together. She looks up into Clint’s eyes and knows he’s feeling the same thing, they’re open and unguarded and she could look into them forever, have this moment forever.

She knows Phil is watching, watching them share this thing they don’t talk about, and she keeps her face open, lets him look, lets him have this, too, share this with them, too. Clint is setting his slowest pace, steady and rocking and the sweetest burn, giving her gentle kisses, his forearms holding him above her, hands tucked under her shoulders, pretty much planking and Good God she appreciates his core strength.

Phil traces along Clint’s back and his hips stutter into Natasha and she moans, and then Clint thrusts twice, wildly, and Phil says, “No, slow, take it slow, back,” and Clint swallows, and nods, and presses his forehead to Natasha’s. She looks up at him, into his eyes, offering her calm to him, and he kisses her lips to take it from her, starting up the achingly slow pace again.

Phil runs his fingers down Clint’s spine, but Clint’s braced for it now, and while he shudders, tossing his head, it doesn’t change the steady slide of his hips. She can guess some of the thoughts- the needs- behind that shudder, the years of built-up want-and-won’t-take, and she is so sympathetic. She kisses him gently and lets her eyes tell him it’s okay, every time he opens them to check in with her. He’s nodding, Phil’s fingers undoing him on top of her, grasping for his usual calm, and there are tears there, and it’s so sweet, everything she can guess that he’s feeling, and she can’t wait for Phil to fuck him, because that is happening, that is happening.

Phil continues touching Clint, running a possessive hand down Clint’s thighs, up his spine, down his shoulders, and Natasha, watching Clint above her, can feel the exact moment when “so much” becomes “too much.” Clint’s hip stutter, struggling to keep the rhythm Phil wants, and Natasha’s eyes fly to Phil’s face. Phil is watching Clint struggle with a small, private smile, and he glances at Natasha and there’s the tiniest hint of a smirk. She huffs out a breath, her smile twisting to share this moment with him, and his smirk broadens, and he says, conversationally, “Go ahead,” and Clint bucks into her, and all of his control falls apart. She loves it, the way he clutches his hands on her shoulders, now, pulling her to him and he thrusts into her, gnaws on her collarbone. She runs her fingers through his hair, encouraging, tugging- Clint is made for hair-pulling, it’s unreal how much she loves to do it- soothing, accepting. He raises his head, and kisses her lips with such bruising need that she aches for him. Phil’s hand joins hers on the back of his head, on his neck, supporting, and he starts to murmur, just for Clint, and Clint tosses his head and whines, his breath sputtering, hissing between his teeth. “That’s it, Clint,” says Phil, calmly, warmly, “just like that, just the way I want you, I love watching you, love watching you, just like this, Clint.”

Natasha aches for Clint as he opens his eyes to stare at her, disbelieving, aches because he didn’t know it would be like this. She knew, she knew it would be this incandescent fire between them, that Clint was holding back because there was so much there, but Clint didn’t, and she kisses his cheek and whispers, “Got you, we got you,” in counterpoint to Phil’s soft and secure praise. Clint breaks apart in their arms she feels tears against her cheek and shushs in his ear, her hands soothing as he gasps once. Phil’s voice is calm, assured, he knows, as he says, “Exactly right, just like this, Clint, keep going, almost there, stay with us, stay with us, here.”

Clint gasps once, almost a sob, and then tenses, all over, soundless, at the peak of a thrust. She feels him spill into her and props his head up with her hands, ignoring the bruising grip of his fingers pulling her down to him. He has tear tracks at the corners of his eyes, and his eyes are fixed on a point above the bed for several heartbeats, and then he closes them and rest his forehead on hers, and begins gasping for breath, shaking. “Shhh,” soothes Phil, gripping the nape of Clint’s neck, “Shhh, just like that. You’re safe, you’re here, with us, stay with us.” 

“We got you,” whispers Natasha, and he kisses her lips helplessly and Phil’s hand slips down to soothe his back. He doesn’t collapse onto her, as he would at home, goofy and gleeful. He’s careful, so careful, propped above her still, and she loves the feel of his dick softening inside her as he struggles to control his breathing, his trembling.

Phil pulls his head up and around and gives him a sweet kiss, and Clint makes a small hurt noise, deep in his chest, and kisses back, and relaxes a little on top of her, his breathing evening out. When Phil lets him go, he drops his forehead onto Natasha’s collarbone, slides the rest of the way out of her, and sways from side to side for a second. 

“Oh, my, God,” he mumbles, eventually. “That was so- fuck.” 

He lifts his head to look at her and he’s laughing, so she laughs back at him, happy for his release, in so many ways. “I can’t wait for Phil to fuck you,” she tells him, and he groans, “Nat, I can’t- I can’t process that right now, fuck,” and then he reaches over and tugs Phil down beside her and flings himself half on top of Phil for more kissing, deeper and much more filthy, that flirty tongue showing off.

“Fuck, sir, destroyed, did you know? Did you know you would-” he mumbles into the kiss, multitasking like a motherfucker. Natasha is pretty proud of him, vulnerability isn’t easy for him, he usually tries to shut it down immediately with jokes or humor.

“I guessed,” admits Phil. “I- I would never, you had to- I wouldn’t have, but yeah, I guessed.”

“Fuck, sir,” groans Clint, into the kiss, “warn a guy.”

Natasha snorts and says, “Like you listen to warnings,” and thrusts her hips up, reminding him that she’s being crushed here, while they have their moment. She’s all for moments, but Phil is better built to handle Clint’s weight load and he should be the one pressed underneath Clint for this moment. Clint flicks her a glance, smirks, and then presses down with his hips, pinning her. She narrows her eyes because it’s not pinning if she’s letting it happen, she hopes he knows that, and Phil says, “Knock it off, you two,” and they both turn to look at him, identical expressions of innocence because she learned how to make this particular face from Clint.

“Tell it to someone who wasn’t in Budapest,” he suggests, his eyes making it clear he’s not even going to pretend to fall for it right now. She wiggles her hips again- get off, Clint- and Clint sighs and shifts so that the bed takes some of his weight, one leg slipping between her thighs.

They never talk about how most of their communication isn’t verbal, between the three of them, because the reason is Clint, and there’s no reason to make it a thing when it might make him feel awkward. She’s fifty-fifty on whether it would, it’s not like his deafness is a trigger anymore, but she doesn’t take the chance, and Phil follows her lead. Their communication isn’t verbal, so when he and Phil share a long look that lasts until Clint’s cum is leaking from her, itchy between her thighs, she lets them. She can read some of what they’re not saying, and it’s, it’s really good.

Natasha loves that this version of her, this persona she has chosen, can lie contentedly and bask in this glow. None of her other- she chose this Natasha Romanov, but the sheer scope of everything she could be as Natasha Romanov expanded exponentially beyond that initial decision. She doesn’t know how she went from wears sweatpants to instigates threesomes, but if she ever has to burn off this persona she’s not sure what will be left behind. Eventually her men stop having the most romantic eye-fucking she’s ever gotten a contact high from, and she hums in pleasure as they slide into kissing. Now that the mad rush is over, Phil will make them take their time, she knows from long experience. They have three days until retrieval, and while there’s going to be paperwork, she also knows they’re all going to be walking away from this one sore. She hopes they won’t have to dive right into another mission because she wants to take Clint home to Laura like that, limping and raw and high in love.

Clint is already making needy noises against Phil’s mouth and Natasha smirks, slipping out of the bed to go dig through the pockets of her go-bag. There’s lube- she’s no idiot, it’s the good silicone kind, long lasting, tastes terrible, but that’s easy enough to avoid right now. 

She almost laughs when she vaults the ridiculous footboard because Clint and Phil have together managed to get Clint’s ass in the air, because of course they can read her mind. She’s never prepped him but it’s an ass, she can figure out his, the theory’s not that hard. 

She does take a moment to wonder why they haven’t. Laura’s adventurous and playful and Clint is open about his lack of concern for sanity in the cause of seeking an orgasm, and Natasha was literally a Lola-assassin as an actual child. She figures after Laura sees how Clint’s going to limp, coming home from this mission, it’s going on the list, and makes a mental note to buy Laura a strap-on. Two-day shipping is a godsend to their relationship, it really is.

She slides one finger in and both Clint and Phil moan, which is interesting. She shifts so she can see, as she presses in, and watches Clint’s tongue fuck in past Phil’s lips. Oh. Clever Clint. She works her finger up to Clint’s prostate, making his breath stutter and Phil moan again, and then she settles on a rhythm and begins stretching him.

When she’s ready, long past when Clint is a mumbling wreck mouthing Phil’s neck, she slides two fingers in, smooth and careful, an easy glide. He groans, and Phil thrusts up, and she puts a hand on Clint’s lower back soothingly, to steady him. She has no idea how long it’s been since he’s been fucked and she is taking no chances, going slow and using more lube than is strictly necessary.

“F-fuck, N’tasha,” Clint gasps, pushing back onto her fingers, “you fuckin’ tease, just, three, goddamn, sir, make her gimme three already, I want you innn-“ the last word is a greedy whine, one Natasha has never pulled from Clint, but one she figured she’d hear with Phil in the bed. Phil smirks up at her and says quietly, tone calm and assured, “Let the woman work, Barton.” Clint’s hips stutter as he whines wordlessly and honestly, she’d be ok with giving him three but Phil is smirking at her and she loves it. She scissors her two instead, stretching and loving the feel of Clint’s body releasing for her. 

“F-fuck, you f-fuckin- I ‘m gonna remember this, you t-traitor-“ whimpers Clint, gnawing at Phil’s collarbone. The wonderful thing about this bed with these people in it is that they all know he’s not talking to Phil. It’s no surprise when he begins to buck back on her fingers and Phil raises his hand to cup Clint’s face, gentle and sweet, and then starts to whisper to him about how good he’s being, how good can he keep being, for Phil, for them, for Natasha, how good can Clint keep it up. She can’t see Clint’s face but he’s taking huge gasping breaths, just this side of crying again, and she loves it, loves how Phil has him completely wrecked and vulnerable. She’s been sleeping with Clint for years now and they’ve had angry sex and humorous sex and drunk sex and loving sex, but this is Clint coming unglued for Phil, and she is the luckiest woman alive. She gives in and presses three fingers in. They slide easily and Clint whimpers some more, and Phil says, “Look here, look at me, Clint.” She knows the exact moment that Clint’s eyes must latch onto Phil’s face because he tenses all over, clenching tight on her fingers.

“I’m going to fuck you,” Phil says, slowly and clearly and conversationally. “And I need you to be ready for that. Get ready.”

Clint nods, desperate, and Natasha slips her pinky in with the next thrust of her fingers. He’s ready, he’s so ready, if he could find his voice he’d be begging but he has a way of making his body do that work for him. Phil isn’t much better- she can’t see his erection but she knows it exists by the sweat at his temples and the way that he’s shivering with every kitten lick of Clint’s tongue to his neck, his collarbone, the skin just below his ears.

She’s ready, she’s been ready for years, has wanted to see this since just after Phil had fucked her home on that mission in Cambodia. She knew then, as she knows now, that this is going to be so good, this is going to fix something broken in Clint, something Laura and her can’t get to with all their laughter and love. She doesn’t know what, but she’s always trusted her instincts around her men, and so far, she’s never been wrong.

“Ready,” she breathes, and then she nods at Phil. He nods back, closing his eyes briefly, and then opens them and her skin feels sunburned by the flames in them. 

“Want you, Natasha, down,” orders Phil, his voice thick, sliding out from under Clint as gracefully as if he practiced this move on the mats every day. “Clint on your knees, over her, look at her, just, just center yourself there. We’ve got you.” 

It’s exactly the kind of thing Phil would think to do, to give Clint all the comfort he could while he busts him down to his atomic particles. Natasha slides herself under Clint, wrapping her legs around his thighs, and he rests his forehead on hers with a few pecks at her lips, taking comfort. They don’t have to look, in this moment of resting, for her to provide him with comfort. “You ready?” she whispers, for reassurance. He nods so small it’s like an affirmative twitch. She loves him, so when she whispers, “I love you,” it’s nothing but a simple reminder. He twitches again, as Phil settles into a kneeling position between his legs, hands gentle as they curve around his hips.

Clint blows out a breath and opens his eyes, and Natasha looks and looks into his blue eyes, pupils blown wide in the dim light of the bedroom. He’s telling her so much, so vulnerable like this, things that had taken her the better part of a decade to learn about him all bare in these few heartbeats. She nods, mimicking his small twitches from earlier, accepting everything she sees there and whispers, “We got you. You’re ours.” Phil chooses that moment to push in and Clint’s eyes go strained and his mouth goes slack with wonder. It’s a good look on him, and she feels the smirk play across her lips. 

“Ngh,” groans Clint, and then, “Uh, huh.”

“Good,” hisses Phil, and she loves knowing exactly what that tone in his voice is, the same one he uses when she’s surprised him and he’s having trouble maintaining control. “S-so good. Got you, just- got you, just- s-so good.”

Clint nods his head, lifting one hand to reach back and pat Phil on the hip, the gesture such a sloppy attempt at comfort that both Natasha and Phil bark short laughs until Phil gives a little thrust and bottoms out and groans. Clint’s gaze meets Natasha’s again, and she holds her breath at everything she sees reflected in his eyes. “You waited, too,” she tells him, to one of the things she sees, “You made him wait, but you waited too, and now-” Phil thrusts, excellent timing, yes, “-now you’re all done, you can let us- just let us have you.”

“‘M all done,” he slurs in agreement, pushing back against Phil and taking the next thrust in one smooth motion, and his eyes flutter but they never leave her face.

“All ours,” agrees Natasha, running her hands up his side, comforting, calming. “So safe here. So good.” His eyes do close on that and she loves it, loves how Phil is destroying his walls one thrust at a time, knocking everything down to just this raw Clint, this raw Clint that she can keep safe, here, between them. She doesn’t know what happened to Clint to make him need this so much, or what else happened to make him deny it, but she’s so glad for all of them that it’s finally happening.

Phil sets a slow rocking rhythm, almost comforting except for the way Clint is gasping harshly, hands clenching into the sheets on either side of Natasha’s shoulder. She lifts up to press kisses all over his face, gentle, sweet kisses, reminders that he’s loved, so loved, and that this moment is romantic, for all it’s too much to actually be just romantic.

She catches glances with Phil, when Clint closes his eyes. Phil’s eyes are shining and bright and if she didn’t already love him with uncomplicated joy, she’d fall in love with the tender amazement she sees in them now. He would have waited forever for this. She’s glad he didn’t have to. She licks her lips and nods at him and whispers to Clint, “Clint, eyes up, up here, Phil is going to-“ and then she slips a hand between them, still slick with the lube, and wraps around his cock. 

Clint’s breath burst out of him in a choke and he gasps, “n-nuh, N’tasha, s’too’much, stop.” And she is normally so good at listening, Laura is a stickler for vocal consent, but she says, quietly, “You need too much, just a little, right now. Let me-“

He nods, biting his lip, giving in to her- to them, really, this is so not about her it’s laughable. Phil’s hips stutter and she knows, knows that he’s not going to be able to keep that steady beat for much longer. 

She licks her lips, Clint’s eyes tight and aching, his body taut and trembling again, and says, “I like you like this, just like this, Clint, and so does he, God, so does he, let me, let me,” and Clint’s breath is a sob that gasps when Phil’s hands clutch at his hips and the rhythm goes savage.

Clint shakes his head, pushing back into Phil’s erratic thrusts and forward into Natasha’s clever, slick hands. He’s keening softly under his breath as Phil groans loudly, and Natasha’s fingers coax a second orgasm out of Clint. She’s pleased with her timing- there’s something beautiful and euphoric about knowing her men are hitting those fireworks within a breath of each other.

Phil guides them shakily down to lay on the bed beside her, a hot tangle of limbs, and Clint is crying again, tears leaking out through his laughter as he gasps, “Jesus I- I am not in your weight class, either of you, leave me, holy shit- sex gods.”

Natasha preens and scoots closer to press a kiss to his forehead. Phil wraps arms around him, sure and strong despite his own gasping breath. “Got you,” he mumbles, kissing Clint’s shoulder. “S’all right now.”

Clint gives Natasha his most disbelieving look, thighs twitching against hers, back arching as the last of the aftershocks run through him, and she smiles back at him sunnily. “It’s all right, Clint,” she reminds him, “you’re definitely in the sex god club. It’s your tongue, that thing you do-“

Phil groans and says, “Fuck yes. Sex god.”

The disbelief is sliding from Clint’s face, gone entirely by the time he turns to kiss the other man, replaced by a quiet awe. Natasha loves to see it, has seen it there so many homecoming nights, when Clint realizes Laura is still his. Phil has always been Clint’s, all the long years Natasha has known them, patient and assured, ready for just the right time.  
Natasha has no idea how long they would have continued to wait- until Phil’s retirement? until Clint’s?- before having this moment of afterglow, but she’s so pleased it’s all worked out exactly as she thought it would.

“Shut up,” Clint tells her, voice just above a mumble, eyes closed. “Don’t want to hear it.”

Phil chuckles and kisses his shoulder again and asks Natasha, “Towels? For, uh?”

She nods, her hands absolutely coated with slick and slime and frankly, the best kind of disgusting possible. She slips from the bed and finds hand towels, washing hers with soap in the sink and taking a second to wipe down the mess between her thighs. She grabs a washcloth, warms it in scalding hot water, and crawls back into bed. She wipes down little-spoon Clint first, and he grumbles but she knows he’d thank her if he was less exhausted. Phil does thank her, quietly, wiping himself and Clint’s backside with the wet cloth before drying them with the towel. Natasha thinks about her choices for three seconds, then throws the cloths on the floor far enough away from the bed that they’ll be easy to avoid in the morning. She slides herself in front of Clint, facing him, and kisses his forehead. 

Phil reaches down and pulls the covers up over all of them and says, “Sleep. You’re safe now. I got you.”

She hums agreement back to him and closes her eyes to the familiar sound of Clint’s messed up irregular sleepy breathing. Natasha is without a doubt the luckiest person alive in this moment, and yeah, she’s counting Clint, too.

~~~

In the morning, while Phil makes breakfast, she ships two cufflinks to her office at HQ, both lilies, one yellow, one white. Yellow for thankfulness and desire, white for purity. She glances up as Clint stumbles into the kitchen, boxers back on, and shows him her screen. He kisses the top of her head, his version of a thank-you-so-much, and collapses into a nearby chair. “You can do the thing?” he signs at her, and she signs back, while Phil’s back is turned, “His apartment, the day we hit HQ.” Clint nods and signs his gratitude to her, for organizing things.

They eat breakfast and get a good head start on the paperwork, less to do at HQ. After lunch, they do some stretches, loosening muscles, and then Phil herds them back to the ridiculous bed where they fuck only slightly less intensely and passionately until just before the pick up arrives. Natasha burns some candles and Clint opens some windows while Phil packs up bags and removes all traces of them from the little B and B, bundling the sheets and taking them down to shove in the washer in housekeeping.

Clint is definitely limping a little and Natasha is so smug, she knows it’s showing. Phil looks like himself, Phil always looks like just himself. She’s seen him shot and bleeding out and he looked just like this, with bloodstains.

They race through the remaining paperwork at HQ, and she suspects Clint of messing his up on purpose, but Phil catches it and waves her away when she sighs at the fifteen forms he’s managed to complete that haven’t been used in five years. It might be a ploy, but he did the same thing three months ago and it wasn’t a ploy them. 

In any case, being waved off to go do something else fits into their plan pretty perfectly, as she slips into Phil’s apartment and begins tucking vases full of lilies everywhere. They’re in every color, a riot of emotions in each glance, and it costs a small fortune, and Natasha loves it. She’s going home with Clint this time, there’s so much to say to Laura, but she’ll be here with him, too, this way. She’s back at HQ just as they’re winding down, and she slips the box with the cufflinks to Clint and closes the blinds to Phil’s office with a flick of her wrists. SHIELD headquarters knows how to value privacy, and given Clint’s tendency to slip into sign language, they often close the blinds during emotional debriefings.

Phil looks up, his expression wary, as Clint stands and walks, knock-kneed, over to him. Clint sits on the desk in front of Phil, and Phil leans back, and Clint leans forward, and Natasha holds her breath. After several long heartbeats, Phil leans forward just slightly, and then something snaps and they’re kissing, sweet and romantic and Natasha is so damn lucky. They pause a moment, and Clint says, “Got you jewelry,” and hands him the box. It’s not Shakespeare, it’s Clint, pure Clint, and she knows Phil gets it when his eyes soften a whole lot and he breathes, “Clint,” in a tone of voice that reminds her of how he looked on that first slide into Clint’s flesh. 

Phil opens the box and barks a laugh and says, “I suppose I can swap out all my shirts for French cuffs.”

Natasha nods, happily. “You do that, sir,” she agrees.

Clint says, “Bitch bitch bitch,” and Phil laughs at him. He has no idea what's in store for him at his apartment, and Natasha loves this moment. Of all the moments this version of her has given her, this one is maybe her favorite.

~~~

They're just sitting down to lunch the next day, a Laura special stir-fry homecoming celebration meal, in the actual dining room for once because Cole insisted, when the kitchen door opens and Clint and Natasha tense. The footsteps that echo on the tile are unmistakably Phil's, so they immediately relax and smile. Clint signs to Laura, "P-H-I-L" and Laura's startled look slides into a smirk. "Hello, Phil," she calls, "In here, I made enough, grab a plate on your way past the cupboard."

He looks a little wrecked, if you know where to look, but he walks in and puts his plate in the empty spot. Laura kisses the top of his head, surely the only person on Earth with that right, as she walks past with cups of milk for the kids. Clint smirks at Phil over the kid's excited exclamations of "Uncle Phil!" and happy babble about their report cards. Natasha doesn't know why he's smirking, he's still limping. Phil is the one who should be smirking. But instead, Phil sits there, animatedly talking with the kids about how much they're growing and learning, and looking like he's expecting to be told to leave via shotgun at any minute. 

Laura sits, and takes a bite, and considers Phil as she chews. "You staying for a while?" she asks after a moment, her voice hopeful and serene.

"Y-yeah, at least- at least through the weekend?" offers Phil.

"Good," she says decisively. "We can make up the guest bed or you can stay in with Natasha, up to you. Cole is having issues with his math homework, he could use a knowledgeable cryptographer."

And just like that, Laura makes this normal for him, too. His shoulders relax, and he looses that hang-dog look, and his face fills with an emotion Natasha knows well. Loving Laura is so remarkably easy, she makes it easy, to love her and get everything you want and need. Loving Laura is the best decision Clint ever made, the best decision Natasha has ever made, and as she bites into her favorite stir-fry, Cole spills his milk, and Phil scrambles to wipe it up before it hits the floor, and it's all so perfectly normal.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to throw ideas at me in the comments for other stories you'd like to see with this AU, it could get my creativity flowing, but I'm not promising anything. I won't handle criticism well, unless you and I have a baseline understanding, so I guess keep that to yourself or tell a friend, whichever one you want to do. Thanks for reading!


End file.
